If one must die, he thought, and clearly one must, I can die. But I hate it. Dying was nothing and he had no picture of it nor fear of it in his mind. But living was a field of grain blowing in the wind on the side of a hill. Living was a hawk in the sky. Living was an earthen jar of water in the dust of the threshing with grain flailed out and the chaff blowing. Living was a horse between his legs and a carbine under one leg and a hill and a valley and a stream with trees along it and the far side of the valley and the hills beyond.

From “For Whom the Bells Toll,” by Ernest Hemingway

Everyone has a different picture of living. In this paragraph, Hemingway describes his own vision in the words of the protagonist of this novel—nothing esoteric, simple things such as “a field of grain blowing in the wind … a hawk in the sky … an earthen jar of water … a horse between his legs … a hill … a valley … a stream .…”  Your picture of living lies in places that evoke a feeling of peace within you, where you feel so much at ease with your surroundings that you dilute yourself in the magic of the moment like sugar in a cup of tea.